


brought to me on silver trays

by symbiont



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Feeding, Multi, Other, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbiont/pseuds/symbiont
Summary: ‘Well, y’know there’s that saying that you can never have too much of a great thing? A good thing? No that’s… well anyway, I figured since I’m pretty much perfect that… that would be… good. Y’know, having more of me.'**Or, Mirage gets fed by each of the Legends.
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt/Other(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 79





	1. gibraltar

**Author's Note:**

> please dont read if this isnt your thing thanks! this fic is a challenge to myself to write mirage getting fed by each of the legends. ill name the chapters after the legend involved. also listen to keep yourself alive by queen, you wont regret it :)

The problem is that the soup is warm and comforting, slipping so easily down his throat that Elliott barely even notices it going down. The spices that he can’t name tingling on the edges of his senses, setting them alight with every mouthful. He’s bone tired from this season’s qualifiers - he may be perfect but he’s also not getting younger - and hollow with hunger. 

‘Good to see someone enjoying my cooking,’ Makoa laughs and Elliott nearly jumps out of his skin. It’s a rookie mistake but somehow he’d been so absorbed in eating that he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone. 

‘It’s delicious!’ Elliott says as his spoon finally scraps the bottom of the bowl. He pops the last dregs into his mouth with a pleased sigh, leaning back in his chair. ‘Not as good as my pork chops, though, but that’s a high-bar, my friend.’ 

‘Some more, brotha? It’ll make you big and strong,’ Makoa throws his head back and laughs heartily, like his soup. Elliott’s not even sure that there was a joke there but he finds himself laughing along too and pushing his bowl towards Makoa, swept up in Makoa’s easy camaraderie. ‘Alright, okay! Coming right up.’ Elliott watches, distracted, as Makoa’s broad, calloused hands hold the wooden ladle so gently as he scoops another huge serving into Elliott’s bowl. 

‘Oh, uh, thanks! It looks great,’ Elliott replies, trying to keep up his cheerful enthusiasm so not to hurt Makoa’s feelings. It does look great, smell great, taste great, though, Elliott wasn’t lying about that part - in fact that’s exactly the root of the problem. The weight, the sheer mass of all that soup is finally starting to hit him, all at once since he’d gulped it down so quickly. His stomach feels tight and bloated, and Elliott can help but slip his fingers down curiously over his bloated side, prodding curiously. 

He’s starting to wish that he hadn’t rushed straight to the barrack’s kitchen and had gone back to his room to change out of his jumpsuit, all too aware of how much it clings to him, highlighting every curve and-... well he feels mostly like he’s all curve now. He shifts slightly in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position, glad that at least Makoa’s broad back is turned toward him as Makoa washes the dishes up. It seems rude to leave it though, Elliott can just imagine Makoa’s handsome face twisted with sadness, and it smells so good. He picks up his spoon again. 

It’s difficult and by the time Elliott’s spoon is scraping across the bottom of the bowl for the second time, he’s sweating and breathing heavily like he’s run a marathon not just eaten too much. He never normally lets himself eat past the point of fullness, not since he was a child fighting for food with his brothers, but as he leans back in his chair, trying to give his stomach more room, Elliott realises just how good it feels. His stomach feels heavy, like it’s pressing him down into the chair and filling up all the space in his body so that his lungs can hardly expand. 

The chair squeaks as Elliott leans even further back but no matter how much space he gives himself, his tummy feels just as tight and heavy. He can’t believe, when he glances down at himself, just how round and bloated he looks. Where there was once the flat plane of his abdomen, his stomach now rounds out, pushing insistently against his jumpsuit so that even the stretchy fabric looks thin, struggling to contain him.

He slips his hand over the top of his belly, where he feels tightest, his stomach gurgling and churning beneath his hand. It’s uncomfortable, close to painful even, as his stomach works away at all that food, unable to stretch anymore. He presses his fingers lightly into the tight dome, unable to hold back his moan of relief as he feels the pressure lessen just a little. It feels heavenly. 

‘Need a hand, Elliott?’ Elliott jumps for the second time that day, somehow having forgotten that Makoa was there again. His presence felt so natural and comfortable and Elliott had been so preoccupied with shovelling soup into his mouth, that it was easy enough to forget that he wasn’t the only one in the room. As if to prove his reality, Elliott feels something large and warm pressing gently against his bloated side, before moving in tight soothing circles. ‘I got you.’ 

Elliott gasps at the feeling, glancing down at where Makoa’s huge hands are rubbing his swollen belly, so gently and tenderly that Elliott is seeing stars. The pain is gone, replaced by a satisfied kind of warmth that’s going straight to Elliot’s cock. Surely, Makoa can see how its twitching, Elliott half-hard already - always eager to please. 

He squirms under the attention, satisfied and yet still hungry for more. 

‘Even like this you’re still so small,’ Makoa laughs good-naturedly, giving Elliott’s swollen belly a little pet - as if he’s rewarding it for being very good. 

  
  


Elliott swallows. ‘Y-yeah. I guess I am.’ Why does he want to change that? 


	2. lifeline

Elliott tries not to think of that night again. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy it, in fact it’s the complete opposite - even thinking about it makes him feel hot and shameful all over, his cock hardening. He saves it for when he’s in the shower, sinking his teeth into the meat of his palm to muffle his noises. 

Elliott isn’t ashamed about many things, he thinks he’s pretty much damn perfect in every way, but this… this seems like a secret, like people would look at him strangely for admitting it. So he hides it, buries it deep inside of himself because the trouble is, it wasn’t Makoa’s large, warm hands that gets Elliott hot all over - or well, they do but that’s not the only thing. He’d liked eating that much food, far more than he would normally, more than he needed. But even more than that, Elliott had liked the feeling of his stomach stretching around all that food, tight and heavy and bloated, impossibly round and full. 

It’s wrong, though, nothing but shameful gluttony. Definitely not attractive. 

Elliott’s resolve lasts about until the smell of warm, hearty cooking hits him as he walks into the communal kitchen. He isn’t sure who’d cooked today, except for that there were pots of food set out on the counter, when he’d padded into the kitchen wearing loose pants and a shirt that his hand was currently under, scratching lazily at his tummy. It was their tradition, for someone else to cook each day so that their diets never got boring. Of course a few, such as Revenant for obvious reasons and Anita due to her strict dietary restrictions, avoided this (and others seemed to find their own reasons to be there even though they didn’t have to be, so that Elliott was constantly annoyed by Pathfinder’s smiling display screen trying to make conversation with him while he was undertaking the important task of eating). But, despite this, there was still always something good guaranteed to be cooking around meal times. 

But today, the remains seem to have been abandoned, everyone wandering in and out to eat rather than having one big team dinner. Elliott grabs a plate and starts loading it up mindlessly, taking something or rather several ‘somethings’ from each plate and pot and tupperware until he can’t dare to take any more. The dumplings taste so good and warm, their fillings - both veggies and meats - spilling over his lips until Elliott greedily licks them clean, moaning low and breathily at the flavour. 

Soon the mountain of food that had been sitting on the table in front of him is looking a little forlorn, a stack of half-empty plates like the leaning Tower of Pisa, smeared with the remains of their treasures. Elliott leans back in his chair with a little huff of exertion, feeling like he might pop - but also full and warm and satisfied in a way he hadn’t since *that* night. 

His sweatpants feel *tight*, shit is that even possible. Elliott reaches down to rub careful fingers along the waistband, feeling how harshly it’s digging into his skin, the elastic pulled taut and his tummy, soft and bloated and happy, pooches out over the top. He kneads it for a moment, groaning at the relief before he slips his fingers beneath the waistband, brushing against his warm and taut skin as he pulls the band down until it’s resting more comfortably beneath the lower curve of his stomach. The thought that his belly even has a curve sends a wave of heat through Elliott and he groans, his cock twitching with interest. 

It’s a relief - Elliott still feels a bit like a balloon, round and bloated where he’s full to the brim, but not quite like he’s going to be cut in half by his sweatpants anymore as his belly gratefully expands into the extra space. Looking down at himself, Elliott can’t believe how big and round he looks, and when he leans forward slightly his belly sits heavily on top of his thighs. He rubs his fingertips across his soft sides, where the skin feels tender and stretched, groaning from the weight of all that food inside of him. 

Then Elliott realises with a jolt of fear, there are footsteps coming towards the kitchen - quick and even down the hallway. 

‘Elliott, what are doin’ here?’ Elliott’s still struggling with the waistband of his sweats, trying and failing to pull them back up so that his belly isn’t hanging out, when Ajay rounds the corner. 

‘I… so, maybe I got a little hungry,’ Elliott says, shrugging like it’s nothing even as his stomach gives a traitorous growl. There’s no much else he can do, the evidence is right in front of him. 

‘Looks like more than a little,’ Ajay laughs, like she’s teasing him but without a hint of disgust - her words warm with an emotion that could be… fondness? Elliott’s embarrassment lessens for a moment before it comes back in full force because fuck, he wishes she would tease him properly. ‘If you keep eatin’ like that you’ll turn into a dumpling.’ 

Elliott feels like he’s watching in slow motion as she steps towards him, reaching her hand out towards his stomach. His pulse is hammering so hard in his ears that he almost misses the sound, like a drum because of how tightly packed he is, when Ajay gives his stomach a little pat, like it’s a well behaved puppy. 

‘Y-y-y…,’ Elliott stammers for a moment, hot all over like that time he had to stay in bed for a week with a fever - sweating straight through his clothes and the sheets. He can hear his pulse hammering in his ears. *Don’t thank her, don’t thank her, Mirage you beautiful idiot, you shouldn’t… that shouldn’t be a compliment*. ‘You think so? Well, I heard dumplings are pretty popular. Don’t look too bad either, kinda… smooth, I guess.’ 

Ajay laughs again, bright and happy like sunshine on Elliott’s skin. 


	3. wraith

‘What are you doing, Elliott?’ 

Wraith had only just started calling him that, the slow creep of familiarity from Mirage to Witt and now Elliott as they got to know each other better. The thought that after all this time, all their times teamed up together, Wraith finally thinks of him as...well maybe a friend, makes Elliott’s inside go all warm. Or maybe that was just the family serving of chili he’d eaten. 

‘Eatin’,’ he says slowly, his voice muffled around the slice of garlic bread he was currently shoving into his mouth. His gaze shifts slowly from his plate to Wraith, who’s dropping down into the seat next to him. Beneath the table Elliott gives the hem of his shirt a nervous tug, trying to pull it down to cover the sliver of skin showing, the soft lower curve of his tummy. 

‘I can see that.’ Her voice is as cold and unreadable forever and Elliott swallows nervously, the thick heavy garlic bread sliding down his throat with difficulty. ‘You’ve been doing that a lot recently. Don’t think that everyone hasn’t noticed, you’re not subtle. I want to know why.’ 

Elliott swallows, watching the way Wraith’s gaze moves down to the obvious swell of his stomach beneath his shirt. There’s no hiding it and Wraith probably knows everything already, she’s good at that. 

‘Well, y’know there’s that saying that *you can never have too much of a great thing*? A good thing? No that’s… well anyway, I figured since I’m pretty much perfect that… that would be… good. Y’know, having more of me,’ he says, his hand sliding down subconsciously to rub little circles into his side as his tummy cramps. 

As he’d expected, that seems to confuse her. Elliott watches the furrow forming between her brows. 

‘And you like it?’ She’s not laughing or looking particularly disgusted, just a bit confused and well… Wraith-like. Unreadable. Serious. 

‘Yeah I mean,’ in for a penny, in for a pound, Elliott supposes. ‘Yeah I like it. I like eatin’ and this is…,’ he gives his tummy a little pat, feeling his cheeks flush hot and red at putting on a display like this. He almost… wants her to call him out on it and Elliott can’t quite understand why he wants that, except that he’s arching his back just a little so that his tummy juts out even further, comically round and huge on his small frame. ‘It feels really good.’ He bites his lips, glancing up at her through his lashes. 

Wraith cocks an eyebrow, her gaze shifting downwards, roaming across every inch of Elliott’s body. ‘It looks like that.’ 

Elliott freezes up, his confidence turning to ash. He’s suddenly very aware of the insistent throbbing of his cock, half-hard already in his pants against the lower curve of his tummy. Things had been going so well in the not getting told he was a weird freak department, all ruined by just how kinky Elliott truly was.

‘Like this?’ Wraith says, while Elliott’s brain is still playing catch up. Before he knows what’s happening, he feels her palm brushing against the line of his cock, unable to stop the breathy moan that escapes from between his lips - still peppered with sauce and bread crumbs. ‘Does that feel good too?’ Her other hands come to rest warmly on the very center of Elliott’s belly, giving it a gentle pat. 

Elliott moans, canting his hips to push more against her hands. He’s not even thinking, overcome with the simple pleasure of having someone else’s hands on him. Then, Wraith starts to move, stroking up and down his length in time to rubbing little circles into his belly - winding him both tighter and tighter as well as giving him sweet relief. 

‘You feel bigger,’ she says, breaking the soundtrack of his little gasps and moans. He can feel her trailing her fingers upwards over the curve of his belly until her thumbs dips into his belly button, lifting it for just a second. 

And suddenly, Elliott’s nerves are alight with molten gold and he tips his head back, moaning and weakly thrusting his hips as much as he can pinned down by the weight of his belly, coming inside of his boxers. That one touch was enough. 

‘Interesting choice,’ she says, wiping her hand off on his shirt and getting up. 

Elliott is left sticky but too blissed out to care who finds him here, until he catches his breath. And then, like the glutton he’s becoming, all Elliott can think is that he wants more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my personal headcanon is that wraith still goes by wraith instead of renee


	4. pathfinder

‘Hey Mirage! Want to try my stew? It’s a Pathfinder special recipe!’ Pathfinder’s voice has always grated on him, in a kind of friendly way. Kind of. Mostly. 

‘You made it?’ Elliot says, eyeing the pot suspiciously. It’s not exactly that he doesn’t trust Pathfinder, they’re friends underneath all the bickering it’s just… yeah, okay maybe he doesn’t trust Pathfinder. He sniffs the air tentatively and the scent hits him all at once, warm and hearty and thick, with just a hint of spice that has his mouth watering. 

It’s not exactly his mom’s Porkchops but it does smell *good*. 

Elliot’s stomach rumbles impatiently, eager to remind him that he hasn’t eaten in a few years. He’s pretty sure it’s lying to him though, surely he couldn’t survive that long, but Elliot doesn’t want to risk it. His stomach has never led him wrong so far. 

‘Alright, fine, fine, I’ll have a *little*,’ he says, sitting down at the table and giving his tummy a little pat. It’s softer than he remembers, pressing insistently against the front of his jumpsuit. 

He doesn’t have long to dwell on it, though, as pathfinder places a bowl filled with steaming stew in front of him. Does the robot not know the concept of little? Elliot is sure that the bowl is at least as big as his head. 

Still, he picks up his spoon like a man going to war and scoops up some, slurping it up obnoxiously loud. He lets the stew sit on his tongue for a few moments, tasting it before he swallows. The stew itself is thick and nicely spiced, and the meat is buttery and savoury, cooked just how Elliot likes it. He leans forward, quickly taking another mouthful. Leviathan meat has never been his favourite but somehow Pathfinder has found a way to make it a little less tough and tasteless.

Without even having taste buds himself. 

‘This is… this is delib- delid-... it’s really good, Path.’

‘I noticed that you were eating more recently. You have been consuming a surplus of calories for the last 3 weeks. I thought I would help. That is what a good friend does.’ 

It takes Elliot a moment, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of Leviathan meat, to realise what Pathfinder has just said. 

‘You made this… for me?’

‘Anything for my best friend, Mirage,’ Pathfinder chirps back. ‘Unfortunately I miscalculated the serving size. I will not make that mistake again. But don’t worry if you can’t finish it all, friend. I’m just so happy that we are friends.’ 

A smiley face flashes up on the screen on Pathfinder’s chest. Somehow that makes Elliot twice as determined to finish every last bite. 

Elliot’s resolve starts to waver with about a quarter of the stew left, as the food that he’d eaten quickly finally starts to catch up with him. He feels slow and heavy, like his stomach is a rock weighing him down. He can feel it stretching and churning around all the food, warm and tingly. He feels huge already but he wants to feel bigger. 

The simple gluttony is enough to turn him on and Elliot can only hope that Pathfinder is tactful for once in his life and ignores Elliot’s current state. 

‘’Scuse me,’ he says, hiccuping into his left fist as his right hand rests tentatively on the top curve of his belly, just beneath his softening pecs. The jolt of the hiccup shakes his whole body and Elliot can’t even bite back a moan as his belly *sloshes*, uncomfortably full and stretched by all that liquid. 

  
  


‘Almost done, best friend. Let me assist you with that,’ Pathfinder says, seeming to ignore Elliot’s obviously overfull state and plucking the spoon for his fingers. He scoops another spoonful up with unnatural precision and presses it to Elliot’s mouth. ‘Open wide! Here comes the Pathfinder express!’

  
  


Not for the first time, Elliot starts to wonder if Pathfinder really is just happy and cheerful, or if it’s a persona to hide the raging sadist he is deep down. Still, he opens his mouth tamely and accepts the mouthful 

  
  


‘Hey, hey, slow down, Path. I don’t think I can manage another bite.’

  
  


‘I’ve got you, friend,’ Pathfinder says and before Elliot can even process exactly what’s happening one of Pathfinders cool, metal hands is spreading out over Elliot’s overworked tummy, rubbing precise circles into it. Elliot moans, before he can get his wits about him because fuck it does feel good - a little of the painful tightness fading away. 

  
  


Heh. Witts...

  
  


‘Hey, hey, Path easy! I’m not your grapple! _Yeah, I’ve seen what you do with it… don’t think I haven’t_ ,’ he mutters, opening his mouth tamely for the next bite. 

‘Happy to help, friend!’ Pathfinder says and Elliot can hear the smile in his voice, even if it’s robotic. 


	5. decoys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part shouldve come before the pathfinder part so my bad! i hope it still makes sense though. thank you all for reading ;w;

It’s his mother’s recipe, although Elliott has never been able to perfect it quite the same as her. The Pork Chops are good but not quite the delicious flavour that she’d always made him - for his birthday or when the boys at school had been mean to him or when… when his brothers…

They always cheered him up, filled up every part of the emptiness inside of him and left no room for sadness. So, it had seemed right for his little experiment. 

‘Eat it up, pretty boy.’ It’s jarring, hearing those words in his own voice. Elliott’s head snaps up immediately at the command, though, and he opens his mouth as the decoy holds the next pork chop up to Elliott’s eager mouth. He takes a few quick bites, trying to force the food down before his stomach can catch up with him but it doesn’t work, his stomach giving low growls of unhappiness. 

‘Ugh,’ he groans, throwing his head back as he takes a few short shallow breaths. He runs his right hand down tentatively over his belly, feeling how heavy and round it is - he can feel his shirt riding up at the bottom, cool air hitting a sliver of bare skin. Another decoy reaches passed him, it’s holographic hands cool as it rubs little circles into the full crest of Elliott’s belly, where it swells outwards from his pecs, where Elliott can feel it churning painfully. He stifles a burp behind his hand, sighing in relief as that eases the tightness a little. ‘I think I overdid it, all five of me. I’m gonna explode.’

He reaches down, brushing aside the decoys hands to frame his belly between his own, giving it a curious little shake. It’s packed so tightly that it barely even wobbles, although Elliott can see there’s a ting layer of softness that he’s sure was there before. ‘That’s it for tonight.’

He eases himself up again, huffing with the effort and gets to his feet - moving carefully across the meter or so from his table to his bed, his arms cradled beneath his swollen belly like he’s pregnant. Elliott feels lazy, heavy and sated - so full that it’s difficult to breathe. He lays back in bed, ready to take a well deserved nap. 

His experiment was successful. 


	6. caustic

Elliott’s never particularly trusted Nox. Similarities to a certain presumed dead murderer aside, who is so passionate about some canned farts anyway. Nox is, in Elliott’s opinion, a weirdo - maybe even more so than Crypto. The old man has too many secrets

So, he’s not quite sure why he’s trusting him now - following Nox back to his room - somewhere that Elliott is sure nobody has been. Caustic’s offer, though, had been too tempting. 

‘I’ve noticed your appetite,’ Caustic had said. Elliott has swallowed, his stomach choosing that moment to rumble. ‘I’ve got something of you’d like to test it out.’

And now he was here because who *wouldn’t* follow Caustic back to his room with only cryptic information. Oh god, Caustic was going to eat him, wasn’t he? Like Hansel and Gretel, now that Elliott was nicely plu-...

‘I’m not going to kill you.’

Shit, had he said that out loud?

‘Yet. And the possibility is becoming more and more likely unless you stop your incessant yammering.’

‘Don’t way me!’ Elliott had clamped his mouth shut. Hard. With a little squeak of fear and everything. 

‘I won’t be the one eating,’ Casutic had said. It was strange seeing him without his mask, so that Elliott could actually see the dregs of emotion that crossed Casutic’s face, still faint and almost unrecognisable - the slight twitching at the corner of Caustic’s lips, an almost smile.

That had been enough to intrigue Elliott, that little glimmer of emotion that was so rare in the other man. Plus Elliott was, actually, really fucking hungry. 

‘Breathe it in,’ Nox urges, tilting the canister towards Elliott’s face. Or, at least, that’s what Elliot imagines him doing because Nox’s voice is as cold and detached as it always is. A shiver runs through Elliot’s body involuntarily and he feels he’s cheeks heating in response. 

He finds that he really doesn’t mind the thought of being a test subject, being pinned beneath Nox’s microscope. It’s easy enough to relax and let the gas fill his lungs, it’s almost scary how easily he lets his control slip through his hands - practically handing it over to Caustic on a silver tray with a little note card that said ‘please do whatever you want with me, sir’ inside. 

Or, something like that. 

‘You sure about this?’ Elliott says, peering cautiously down at the miniature canister that’s in Caustic’s hand. Still Elliott can’t help the deep rooted feeling that he needs to do as he’s told, even though he has his reservations. He’s had enough lungfuls of Caustic’s mysterious gas before to know that it’s never a good time. He leans forward into the greenish cloud, inhaling deeply. 

At first, to Elliott’s surprise, nothing happens. He breathes in another lungful, just to be sure but he’s definitely not choking to death or… well feeling full like Dr. Caustic had said he would. 

‘Hey, Causty- I mean… Dr. Nox. Don’t think your fart juice is worki-,’ Elliott starts to say, cut off by the growl of his own stomach. He is actually starting to feel a little full now. Elliott glances down as the feeling of fullness increases and gasps at the sight of himself. He can feel Caustic’s gaze on him, cold and detached the same as if Elliott was just a specimen, as he slips a curious hand across his belly. It feels warm to the touch, the press of his hands sending tingles through his skin and to his shock, Elliott realises that he can feel his belly physically rising beneath his palm like he’s some kind of human balloon. 

He can hear the rattle of Caustic’s breathing, closer now like a predator stalking it’s prey - the telltale hitch with each inhale, but he’s hardly able to concentrate on that when his belly is swelling bigger still. Elliott has to lean back to accommodate it now, it’s pressing outwards still against his palms and pooling into his lap and Elliott has never felt so big, stretched so wide - he’s not quite sure it’s actually possible. 

He can’t bite back the moans any longer, they bubble his lips like water from a mountain spring as sweat drips down the curve of his spine, glancing up at Caustic, who’s just staring down at him. 

‘Fuck this is… fuck…,’ Elliott whines, overcome with pleasure and panting like he’s run a marathon. He feels so huge and wide, his belly comically round on his thin frame, forcing his thighs apart as it grows even further and Elliott can’t stop rubbing it, marveling at its size and firmness. 

Caustic huffs quietly but otherwise doesn’t comment, reaching forward

There’s a tightness, gathering around Elliott’s middle and he struggles for a moment, limbs flailing as he tries to drag himself upright again around his huge, swollen stomach, rubbing little circles into the skin. 

_ Rip. _

‘What was…?’ Elliott groans struggling to even see over the crest of his enormous belly. He reaches down and scoops it up a little from where it’s now resting against Caustic’s mattress, trying to see what had caused that noise when he spots the rip, right across the middle of his jumpsuit and the sliver of his tanned skin, forcing itself between the gaps of the material. 

It seems to be slowing though and Elliott huffs, gratefully. He’s painfully hard but there’s no way he can even think about reaching his cock with this big belly in the way, sitting heavily on his thighs and spilling out onto the bed. Instead, he leans back against the headboard, panting as his hands roam across his bloated skin, rubbing and patting and squeezing himself and he groans and pants - feeling helpless, completely at Caustic’s mercy and enjoying every second of it. 

‘Most interesting,’ Caustic comments as he draws away, crossing the room to sit at his desk where he begins to scribble down something. 

That was… intense. He’s not sure it’s something that he wants to try again but definitely. Intense. 

  
  



	7. bangalore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly im very sorry for how long this chapter has taken, i finally ran out of stuff that i had prewritten. secondly i apologise for any spelling mistakes/typos/whatever in this, i feel too sleepy to notice them at the moment. thirdly i dont know why i find bangalore hard to write, her military language was difficult for me so i hope she's not too horribly out of character.
> 
> hope you enjoy xx

The good thing about ice cream is how easily it slides down Elliott’s throat, sweet and creamy and satisfying but never quite enough. It’s both a blessing and a curse because before he knows what’s even happened the entire carton of strawberry is gone and Elliott is left to carefully knead at the crest of his tightly packed tummy, fingers sticky and a sickly sweet taste cloying at the back of his throat. 

He grunts as he slowly shifts himself into a more upright position on the couch, one arm folded protectively over his slightly bloated middle, with more difficulty than he should have with such a simple movement. He smacks his lips together, his tongue darting out from between them to lick up any last remnants of the ice cream. Strawberry isn’t what he would’ve chosen, Elliott’s not quite sure who’d shoved it into the back of the freezer but he wishes that they’d chosen fudge brownie. Luckily, Elliott had the forethought to bring another carton with him - to fill up that final little space. This one was chocolate, still not quite what he was craving but better than the strawberry.

‘Witt,’ Anita says from somewhere behind him and Elliott freezes, hand outstretched towards the carton of ice cream like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. ‘Tell me you’re not really eating that.’

Elliott glances between himself and the discarded ice cream carton. _Well technically I’m not eating it anymore,_ he thinks before biting his tongue. It’s not that Anita intimidates him - not at all in fact - he knows just as well as the rest of the Legends that beneath her tough exterior, Anita is warm and loving and unendingly loyal. 

It’s just that Elliott has this awful sinking feeling in his gut, the one he’s always had around those he respected, that she’s going to be… disappointed in him. Even the thought makes him flush hot and then cold again, with anxious fear.

‘Maybe,’ he replies after a few more moments of silence.

‘Empty calories,’ she scoffs. ‘I’ll make you a _real_ meal.’

And who is Elliott to refuse such an offer?

She works quickly, with the same military precision as with everything that she does. Elliott watches her moving back and forth between the counter and the fridge and the stove, working his fingers in gentle circles across his belly while Anita’s back is turned, trying to help himself digest and free up a little space. 

‘There,’ Anita announces, setting a steaming plate in front of him. Elliott jumps, not having noticed her approach, so engrossed in kneading his own belly. If Anita thinks anything of it, she at least keeps it to herself, simply raising an eyebrow at Elliott.

Elliott stares at the plate for a moment, one hand still gently rubbing circles into the side of his slightly distended belly. He’s not quite full yet, although the ice cream is sitting heavily in his belly, stretching him out nicely. But even just looking at the mound of chicken and rice has his stomach groaning, gurgling in protest beneath his palm - definitely not hungry enough to fit another meal on top of what he’s already eaten. 

And it looks so… plain. 

‘Staple diet in the IMC,’ Anita says, as if this is justification for such a… such a… Ellliott struggles to find the words to describe such a sight - a plate of all the main food groups, if the main food group was the colour beige. 

‘Chicken, brown rice and broccoli,’ she continues, despite Elliott’s silence, stabbing a finger in the direction of each item on the plate. ‘A healthy source of energy and protein. Good for building muscles. Broccoli’s got plenty of vitamins.’

‘Uh… thanks,’ Elliott replies weakly. 

He fiddles with his fork for a moment before picking it up, feeling a bit like a bug beneath a microscope with Anita’s gaze trained on him. A rather big, full bug at that. Despite his fullness, Elliott has to admit that the food does smell _good_ , in the way that almost all cooked food smells warm and comforting and filling (it’s still no porkchop, though). 

He scoops up a generous forkful, bringing it to his lips and blowing on it for a second before popping the entire thing into his mouth. It’s warm and hot and homely, if a little plain, and Elliott hums in approval around the mouthful. His gaze darts over to where Anita’s stood on the other side of the table nodding to herself, as if he’s seeking approval. This slightest of acknowledgements is enough, though, and Elliott happily and tamely spears a chunk of broccoli. 

The food goes down almost as easily as the ice cream had. At first. Anita is obviously a good cook and Elliott smiles happily around each bite, his heart swelling with warmth because this food was cooked for *him*. He’d always worried, anxiously, that Anita found him annoying - their approaches to life were, after all, opposite ends of the spectrum. The feeling had lessened as they’d got to know each other better but still this meal feels like a cementing of their friendship.

Elliott falters for a second, as he considers the mound of rice and remnants of chicken still left in front of him, his left hand slipping down to rub at his belly - packed tight and solid but still with the tiniest give beneath his fingers. It gives a sickly gurgle and the fork dangles in Elliott’s fingers, almost dropping out of them. He had been pleasantly full and sleepy before but now Elliott feels absolutely packed, not the fullest that he’s ever been but still well passed the point of satisfaction.

When he glances down, Elliott can see how his shirt is riding up revealing a sliver of soft tummy just below his belly button but his clothes - everything - still feels too tight and Elliott leans back in the chair as much as he can, trying to give himself more room.

‘Do you think that food’s gonna eat itself?’ Anita says and when Elliott jumps and glances towards her, her face is as blank and stony as a drill sergeant.

‘Y-yes… ma'am…,’ Elliott stutters, feeling the tips of his ears heat up. It’s embarrassing really, how easily and freely he submits but it still sends a little thrill of an entirely different kind of heat flashing through him like a lightning strike. There’s something peaceful about how the buzzing in his mind goes quiet, the easy act of obeying orders. Elliott steadies the fork in his hand and scoops up another heaping mouthful of rice, his cock twitching with the beginnings of interest at his sheer unnecessary gluttony. 

He’s breathing heavily by the time he’s chasing around the last few grains of rice with the fork, belly pooling across his thighs - round and bloated and aching. It’s so warm that Elliott can feel that his cheeks are tinged pink and he just wants to lay down in bed and curl around the heat of his middle. Getting to bed, however, right at that moment sounds like far too much effort and Elliott considers distantly that he might just stretch out on the couch with his pants unbuttoned. 

‘Told you so,’ Anita says, nodding to herself. 

Elliott’s not exactly sure how much good the nutrition of the food will do him when he’s pinned down by the weight of it in his belly, but he feels too warm and round and sleepy to worry too much about the details at that moment. 

‘Mmm-thank you,’ he says, burping as quietly as he can manage behind his fist while his other hand cradles his poor swollen belly. 


	8. bloodhound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so um what to say about this chapter. im a little worried that this is far too sidetracked to fit in with this fic and a little too self indulgent on my part. but i didnt want to scrap it entirely so please enjoy! ive never written miragehound before but i found myself really enjoying it and what with that and the mirage angst, i got a little carried away oops. im sorry for any mistakes, im exhausted. also i've included a few words from old norse but i kind of just googled them so they might be horribly inaccurate, sorry. i hope you enjoy anyway <3

Elliott’s belly still feels a little tender in the morning when he wakes up and he slips a hand beneath the comforter to rub absent-mindedly back and forth, trying to soothe the ache before he has to get up for the day. As Elliott rubs gently back and forth, he starts to realise that his belly definitely has a jiggle to it now, his fingers sinking in to a few centimetres of softness that surely hadn’t used to be there. 

He should be more upset about it, Elliott thinks distantly as heat spreads across his cheeks in a flash, overwhelming in its intensity. He feels lightheaded, like all his blood has rushed there as he gently pinches this new softness that has gathered around his middle and over top his ribs, watching with fascination as a crease appears on his side as he twists. It’s interesting to explore this new and sensitive part of him and Elliott can feel the heat from his cheeks spreading throughout his body.

His stomach chooses that moment to growl impatiently. 

‘That’s how we got into this mess in the first place,’ Elliott sighs, although it doesn’t exactly feel like a mess, he’s actually kinda enjoying it. And now he’s talking to himself. Great.

Elliott drags himself upright with a groan, the comforter pooling in his lap as he rakes his fingers backwards through his sleep-tousled hair, trying to tame it a little. He moves slowly over to his closet, pulling out a crumpled pair of sweatpants that feel soft between his finger tips and an old t-shirt - both worn and comfortable, perfect for yet another off day. As much as he enjoys the time off it’s… difficult, he supposes. He’s full of restless energy, they all are, needing the validation of the spotlight - the endless adoring attention of his fans that is never quite enough to make him feel whole. 

The sweatpants are old, reminding Elliott of another life entirely - days spent in the workshop with his mom, perfecting their holo technology together. The memory feels like the sun, too painful and bright to look at, and Elliott pushes it away - his heart aching. But, for small mercies, the sweatpants certainly don’t  _ fit _ like they had all those years ago. He distracts himself with how tight the waistband feels (on sweatpants? is that even possible?) and the way his belly spills out over the top, too big now to be contained. 

Elliott’s mind is turning these thoughts over, wondering what remains he will find in their shared kitchen that he can have for breakfast, as he heads to the door of his room. Food is becoming an ever more distracting thought so Elliott only just manages to stop himself from stepping right on top of the box sitting innocently outside of his door. 

‘What’s this?’ He wonders, aloud, jerking his head to either side to look down either end of the hallway. But there’s nobody in sight, no clue as to where this has come from. ‘Oh great, now I’m talking to myself again.’

It could be anything - something dangerous sent by a stalker, one of Caustic’s newest experiments that he needed test subjects for - and yet Elliott still stoops down and picks it up. The small box is wrapped neatly but with, Elliott squints in confusion for a moment, newspaper? A little strange but his fingers are already slipping beneath the tape to tear into it and find out what one of his hundreds… no thousands of adoring fans has got for him…

Donuts? It’s a box of donuts.

Elliott’s stomach grumbles loudly and he gives it a little pat, glancing at the box of donuts. It was tempting and Elliott shrugs, turning back into his room. It must’ve been someone who lived at the barracks so it couldn’t be that dangerous, right? Or at least that’s what Elliott tells himself, carefully avoiding the fact that he did live with people paid to cause harm, if not kill.

* * *

Elliott forgets all about the donut incident, after all they’re quickly all gone and forgotten - even the powdered sugar that dusts Elliott’s lips. So, a few days later when he’s leaving his room again, Elliott’s not expecting to find another package wrapped neatly in newspaper, waiting innocently outside of his door. 

This time it’s pastries, each one delicate and filled with fruit jam that Elliott sucks off his fingertips as he eats each one, taking great care not to leave so much as a crumb. 

After that is cinnamon rolls, dripping with icing, so sickly sweet that it clings to the back of Elliott’s throat and he spends the morning laying in bed and pawing at his poor swollen belly. Because, of course, despite their excessive sweetness, Elliott had eaten all of them - not wanting to waste a single crumb - and enjoying how truly bad and gluttonous he felt afterwards. 

And finally only after this little game has been going on for far too long does Elliott starts to wonder about who exactly might be doing this. He probably should’ve done a lot earlier, Elliott realises, as he flops over onto his back beneath the covers - starfishing out so that he takes up the entire bed, the mound of his belly rising in front of him. Surely it had to be somebody else who also lived in the Barracks, because if a fan was sneaking in every day now… the Syndicate’s security would need a little work. A fellow Legend, then?

Elliott crinkles up his nose as he thinks about this possibility, there’s always that treacherous thought that… the other Legends don’t like him. He’s heard them call him annoying enough times to know that. 

He thinks back to when Crypto had held him in that arm lock and he’d been able to look at Crypto’s eyes close up, see all of the cold disdain that they held as Crypto regarded him. Elliott’s heart hammers in his chest, his mood quickly souring. He should’ve handled it better, not been such an obnoxious brat with Crypto… but that was… that was Mirage and if he wasn’t the great Mirage, third most handsome man in the Outlands then…

Who was he? A nobody. 

Elliott’s dark thoughts are interrupted by a noise, a kind of quiet shuffling just outside of his door. Elliott listens for a few seconds, confused, before an idea starts to form in his head. Could this be the mysterious person who was leaving him an extravagant breakfast each morning? Who surely had added precious softness to his belly? 

Elliott’s crossing the room, the carpet cheap and rough against his bare feet, before he can really give it any serious thought - his curiosity getting the better of him. The door is all too close and swings open all too easily, so Elliott doesn’t have the time for unnecessary thoughts like what might or might not be the right thing to do when confronting who knows what. 

And, stood outside the door there’s...

‘Bloodhound?’ He says, his voice dripping with shock. The moment he says it, Elliott winces. He should’ve at least covered up his surprise more instead of making it look like he didn’t want to see them.

Bloodhound shrinks back a little, like a deer in headlights. ‘Forgive me, félagi,’ they say, inclining their head a little. Elliott had used to find their mask unnerving, so used to seeing every emotion flickering across someone’s face that the blankness was like a void, endless and unyielding. That had been long ago, though, and now Elliott finds himself smiling softly - the mask familiar and comforting, for it was who Bloodhound was after all and he had learnt that they were expressive in other ways. ‘The gods know, I only wish to honor you.’

‘Honor me? What, uh, what are you talking about buddy?’ If this was Mirage speaking he would’ve been preening under the attention, the admiration. But it’s Elliott and he can’t think of a single reason why he would be praised, unworthy and empty as he felt. His own mask, he supposes. 

Bloodhound regards him for a few moments, or at least that’s what Elliott thinks they’re doing, before they sigh - the sound hardly audible through their mask. They bend slowly, Elliott tracking the movement - unable to look away as Bloodhound rescues a package, wrapped the same as the ones that all the previous package’s had been. 

‘May I enter?’ They say, finally and Elliott let’s out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He’s suddenly very aware of the sight he must be, still half in the grasp of sleep - his hair and clothes mussed, bare chested and his sleep shorts stretched to their extreme around the swell of his belly.

‘Uh, sure, of course buddy,’ Elliott stutters, standing to one side to let Bloodhound in as he covers his middle self consciously with one arm. ‘Everyone will be talking, you coming into my room with me only in my knickers,’ Elliott says awkwardly, forcing out a laugh. 

Bloodhound says nothing and Elliott’s nervous laughter turns to ash in his throat. His stomach, however, seems not to share his concerns - gurgling loudly to inform him that normally he’d be stuffing his face with delicious breakfast treats. Bloodhound sets the box down onto Elliott’s low table, settling themselves at one end of the couch, smoothing their gloved hands over their thin linen pants, as if flattening out invisible wrinkles. 

Elliott can feel the panic rising in his throat, the strange distant feeling slowly dawning on him that, despite all the signs to the contrary, Bloodhound might be making fun of him. He sits awkwardly on the other end of the couch to stop himself from fidgeting, not sure where to look but forcing his posture into nonchalance. 

‘We prize heilendi. Good health. Winters and long and hard and food is scarce,’ Bloodhound begins, their head turned to stare at the far wall. Elliott can only imagine that they are lost in thought, transported back to another time and place. ‘Hveiti and meat of the Goliaths, salted and kept in stores. These were our only friends and often were gone before the springtime. These were the trials that we faced. But the Old Ways instructed us, told my people to treat those whose own stores were plentiful as konungr, royalty. For they would survive the winter.’ 

‘I wished,’ Bloodhound says, their voice fading away to nothing as they seem to struggle for words for a few moments. ‘I wished to honor you, in the way of my people. They are far from me and yet I feel their spirit in my veins. The Allfather still guides me in all things.’ 

Elliott swallows, for what can he say to this? He feels transported, to a different planet, a different existence entirely where he could be… praised for this form, this warm home that he called a body? For the span of his waist and the equator of his thighs and the shine of spring in his cheeks. Elliott let’s out a shuddering breath, his skin on fire like thousands of burning stars have found their home inside of him. 

‘Let me touch you,  sæti,’ Bloodhound says, reaching for the box. ‘Let me lay my gipt before you.’

Elliott blinks, hardly able to process that this is happening, let alone half of what Bloodhound had said. Their words always sounded ancient, like they were an oracle, that Elliott can barely believe that they are talking about him with the exact same cadence and dialect as if they were discussing their people’s origin. And yet… and yet Elliott had never been praised like this, adored in anyway but especially not for his softened figure - allowed to feel less dirty for enjoying it so much. 

‘Gods you say? Well that wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been worshipped,’ Elliott says, the words sounding hollow to his own ears. It was hard to keep up the act, draining, when all he wanted to do was be vulnerable for once, to give himself to Bloodhound and let them do with him as they wished. 

‘Elliott,’ Bloodhound says and Elliott jumps, unused to his name coming from then. ‘Hush, ástvinur.’

‘Okey-doke,’ Elliott squeaks, his jaw closing with an audible quick in his hastiness. 

‘I will care for you,’ they say and Elliott watches as they open up the package and the box inside. Finally, the smells wafts out - warm and sweet, and Elliott can’t help but moan, his eyes fluttering closed as his lips part, ready and waiting for whatever they will give.

Perhaps he is a little too well trained already.

‘Good,’ Bloodhound says crisply, and then Elliott feels the cool metal of a fork being pressed gently against his lips. He opens a little wider and accepts the warm mouthful, moaning around the tines before the fork slips free again, leaving him bereft. 

He chews the mouthful gratefully, biting back more gentle moans and groans as warmth spreads through him. The taste is sweet - fluffy pancakes, sticky with syrup that makes his mouth water, wanting more. He accepts each mouthful that Bloodhound offers him, like a sacrifice left at his altar, and begs for more. At first the morsels do nothing to dent his appetite, but slowly Elliott feels the warmth spreading through him, his belly feeling heavier, weighing him down and his breaths becoming slower, more laboured - as if even this simple task is too much effort for him.

‘Thank you,’ he breathes once the stack of pancakes is gone, his eyes fluttering closed again. He feels beyond full, sated from a hunger he didn’t know he had and happy to sit there forever - warm and pinned beneath the weight of his own stomach. 

‘There is no need to thank me,’ Bloodhound says and Elliott isn’t sure whether he’s imagining the softness in their voice. ‘You look perfect.’ 

Their gloves creak as they reach out towards him, slowly giving him time to back away if he needs. The first touch of their palms makes Elliott jump, his stomach jolting uncomfortably as their gloves are a shock of cold against his overheated skin. They give him a gentle pat, as if to comfort him, and then begin to rub small concentric circles into his poor stretched and overheated skin, soothing with a gentleness that Elliott had not known Bloodhound had. 

There, beneath Bloodhound’s hands - which have held weapons, which have killed many foes, which have survived many harsh winters and bitter springs - Elliott drifts off to sleep, round and content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be back to regularly scheduled programming haha. i hope there was something for you to enjoy regardless. if anyone has any opinions on my bloodhound characterization please lmk, good or bad or suggestions haha. also! if anyone has any requests for fics or even future chapters i guess, please feel free to leave them below or dm me on twt. i will be making a nsfw twitter to properly take requests soonish hopefully <3


	9. revenant

‘Skin suit,’ Revenant’s voice is unmistakable, robotic and artificial in an entirely different way to Pathfinder’s comforting voice (not that Elliott would ever admit that to Pathfinder himself, of course). There’s a touch of humanity still left in Revenant, the twisted rivers of his hatred overflowing their banks and spilling out into his voice. And, Elliott decides, he should definitely never admit that to Revenant, not if he wanted his head to still be attached to his shoulders. 

‘Oh, hi, scary murder bo-... I mean Revenant,’ Elliott stutters, heart pounding. He sets down his fork into the pie dish, leaning back in his chair despite his state of impending panic. He feels comfortably full, the heaviness and warmth that’s gathered in his stomach - spreading outwards through his body. It helps to ground him, to calm him, taking the edge off Elliott’s fear of Revenant. 

So, despite his fear, Elliott is perhaps less worried than he should be to be approached by their local synthetic nightmare in the communal kitchen, while Elliott had been trying to enjoy a freshly baked apple pie. To say that Revenant was unnerving was understatement, his elongated, spindley body, dead eyes and disregard for life were enough to send shivers up Elliott’s spine. Or at least, it usually was, because now Elliott felt slow, almost sleepy after his snack, slipping his tongue out from between his lips to lick up the last of the flavour that clung to them. 

If he wasn’t already full, Elliott thinks he would eat the whole thing - the flavour was so delicious, tart and sweet. 

‘So, uh, what brings you here?’ Elliott says awkwardly, feeling as if he should at least try and make some conversation. He stifles a burp behind his fist, his other hand slipping down to gently rub at the side of his belly where the skin feels tight. He can’t quite focus on why exactly it’s particularly unsettling for Revenant to be here, Elliott’s mind gone fuzzy at the edges with sleep and satisfaction, except for the fact that it certainly is strange to see the simulacrum in the kitchen when he didn’t eat. In fact, Elliott’s not sure that he’s ever seen Revenant in here. What could he want? 

As quickly as he’d relaxed, Elliott jumps to sit bolt upright in his chair, his stomach lurching dangerously at the movement. Was… was Revenant going to kill him? 

‘Not yet,’ Revenant says, his head tilting to one side like a mountain lion accessing its prey. Oh, Elliott realises distantly, he must’ve said that out loud. His thoughts are drowned out by the thundering of his own pulse in his ears. Revenant takes a step towards him, so that they’re only separated by the table and Elliott leans back without thinking, fear clawing its way up his throat. ‘I want to see you squirm, skinsuit.’ 

Revenant leans forward across the table towards Elliott as he speaks, his face disconcertingly unmoving and his eyes blank. What little, brittle confidence Elliott had before - that surely Revenant wouldn’t actually kill him, right - shatters. He’s starting to feel a little sick, wishing he hadn’t eaten quite so much so that he didn’t feel so heavy and slow, pinned to the spot by the heavy warmth that had settled in his stomach. 

Unable to escape.

‘Good,’ Revenant purrs, as far as his robotic vocal cords could replicate a purr at least. ‘That’s what I like to see. You skinsuits are all the same, so afraid of death…’

Elliott screws his eyes tight shut at that, a rivulet of sweat making it’s way down his spine leaving only a chill in its wake. He leans away from Revenant as far as he can, the slats of the chair digging into his spine and stopping his escape. He’s going to die like this, Elliott realises, senselessly at the kitchen table with half a tin of leftover pie as his last mark on the universe.

Suddenly, and somewhat ridiculously, Elliott wishes at that moment that he could have finished it. 

‘And yet…,’ Elliott almost doesn’t recognise the voice at first, even though it’s coming from right in front of him, so different is it from Revenant’s usual tone. Revenant sounds… he almost sounds sheepish. Elliott blinks at that, forcing his eyes open to stare into the endless void of Revenant’s, which of course give away nothing despite how much Elliott searches their depths. ‘There are still things that I envy. An error in Hammond Robotics programming, now isn’t that funny. A hilarious joke. I am still as flawed as you are.’

‘Uh… I’m-I’m really glad we had this catch up Revvy-uh, Mr. Murder Bot, sir. But to be perb-perp… to be honest I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Elliott manages to choke out, his throat dry when he tries to swallow. 

Revenant regards him for another moment, or at least that’s what Elliott thinks that Revenant’s doing, as the simulacrum goes even more still than usual. 

‘I want you to finish the pie, skin suit,’ Revenant says after a long moment. Elliott blinks.

_ What? _

‘W-... What?’ Elliott manages to choke out, still not sure whether he’d even heard Revenant correctly. Surely, Revenant had meant finish the… the die? No, that couldn’t be it… that didn’t make sense. 

‘The Pie, skinsuit,’ Revenant says, somehow managing to extend himself even further across the table until his emotionless face was right up in Elliott’s, his empty eyes boring into Elliott’s skin. ‘I’m not going to ask again.’ 

Elliott swallows, reaching down to pat the side of his distended belly gingerly. It grumbles unhappily against his palm, apples and sugar and cinnamon and cream and pastry all churning inside - heavy and filling, so that Elliott feels pinned to the spot. There’s no room for anymore, Elliott knows he’s at his limit - comfortably full, round and sleepy.

‘I’m sorry, p-please don’t be mad with me Mr. Murder Bot. But I’m… kind of… already pretty full, actually,’ Elliott stutters, biting his lip.

‘I wasn’t asking,’ Revenant replies, his voice somehow even harder and more unyielding than it had been before. Elliott feels like he’s on the knife's edge of something more, something dangerous…

Who knew what that even meant with Revenant.

‘Uh yeah of course you weren’t… my mistake…,’ Elliott says awkwardly, equally aware that he’s rambling and of Revenant’s piercing gaze on him, as if he’s a butterfly pinned up beneath a display glass. A very round, full butterfly at that. ‘I’ll just stop, um, talking and eat up. Oh boy…’

The pie in front of him does look very good, despite his fullness. Elliott wields his fork with a little more confidence as he breaks off a crumbly little piece of the crush along with a morsel of tart apple, his other hand rubbing gently at the taut side of his belly as he tries to find a little extra room.

Once the first mouthful has passed his lips, though, Elliott’s eyes flutter closed and he moans despite himself. He’d forgotten just how good the taste was, so homely and comforting that Elliott’s anxiety melts away. He can’t stop himself after that, forkful after forkful of sugary sweetness slipping into his mouth and filling his senses with the sweet, fragrant scent of freshly picked apples.

‘It used to be my favourite. Apple pie,’ Revenant says and Elliott jumps, his belly sloshing uncomfortably at the movement. ‘I’d get a slice from the patisserie down the block every weekend. Until I didn’t have weekends anymore. Killing is a full time job.’ 

‘Mmmhph,’ Elliott groans, still trying to settle his poor overworked belly. He feels far too full and sleepy to think about anything at the moment, a kind of submissive headspace that comes so easily when he’s stuffed and bloated with food, to think too much about the significance of what Revenant has said - how much information about his previous life he’d offered so freely.

‘Glad to be of service,’ he says, instead, groaning quietly as he gets slowly to his feet, swollen belly cradled in his arms.


End file.
